


The She-Wolves of Winterfell

by vixleonard



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Absent Parents, Coming of Age, Future Fic, Gen, Implied/Referenced Incest, Jon and Sansa are Cousins, Long Lost/Secret Relatives, POV Original Character, Parent-Child Relationship, Secret Relationship, What-If
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-20
Updated: 2019-04-20
Packaged: 2020-01-20 17:46:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18530035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vixleonard/pseuds/vixleonard
Summary: The pack survived.  So has the Stark habit of keeping secrets.





	The She-Wolves of Winterfell

**Author's Note:**

> Mostly show 'verse but may reference events from the books.

When her mother hears petitions in the Great Hall, Serena is meant to keep to the library with Maester Sam for lessons or practice her archery with Theon. If neither are available, she is to find Brienne to practice with a sword, but Serena doesn’t have the skill with a sword that her cousin Lara has and Serena hates to lose. The last time Lara managed to wrest Serena’s practice sword from her hand in only a few moves, Serena got so angry, she’d charged her younger cousin, startling both of them and leading to Brienne pulling her off of Lara and depositing her in a horse trough.

So no, with Sam and Theon both indisposed, Serena finds her way to the back of the Great Hall to watch her mother, the Lady of Winterfell.

In the otherwise dreary gray of the hall, her mother’s auburn hair shines bright, woven into a collection of braids to form one large one. Serena loves the way it looks but hates sitting still long enough for her mother to replicate the look on Serena’s dark hair. She is wearing her Lady’s face today, the hard, unreadable expression she only puts on when the other Northern lords come to call. On those days, she twists her hair into those braids, puts on one of her somber gray dresses, and sits with her back as straight as the weirwoods are crooked as she listens to these men and their problems.

Even though she was twice married, her mother is Lady Stark. Serena only knows about those marriages from overhearing servant conversations, whispers about imps and flayed men, and when Serena took the whispers to her aunt, her aunt told her to never mention the marriages to her mother.

“They were bad men who did bad things, and they’re long dead now. Neither was your father,” Aunt Arya assured her, seeing the question in Serena’s eyes, “and so we don’t need to waste any more time discussing them.”

But Serena couldn’t help but wonder about her mother’s former husbands. Sometimes it felt like everything interesting happened before Serena was born and no one ever wanted to discuss the interesting things.

Sometime during Lord Glover’s requests, her mother looks up and locks eyes with Serena. Serena tries not to wince, instead offering a little wave, and though she doesn’t smile, Serena recognizes the minute twitching of the corner of her mother’s mouth enough to know she isn’t going to punish Serena for sneaking into the hall. Serena isn’t really that interested in what Lord Glover has to say, preferring instead to watch everyone in the hall, until she hears her own name.

“I would also like to put my son forward for consideration for Lady Serena’s hand.”

For the first time, her mother’s face cracks, the Lady’s face giving way to something Serena doesn’t quite understand. “It is far too early to discuss such things.”

“I beg your pardon, my lady. I thought Lady Serena had her thirteenth name day last moon’s turn.”

She had. Her mother had the cooks make her favorite sweets, Aunt Arya gifted her a new horse that was almost as fast as Arya’s own, Uncle Gendry made her a direwolf pin, and Theon gave her a bow so beautiful, even Lara envied it. It had been Serena’s best name day so far.

And yet hearing Lord Glover discuss it made her stomach churn with some unknown anxiety.

“While I will certainly take your kind offer into consideration, Lady Serena is not yet ready for such a thing.” 

A hand falls on Serena’s shoulder, startling her, and she relaxes at once when she sees it is just Theon. Without saying a word, Serena follows him out of the hall, but she doesn’t wait for the lecture on sneaking away from lessons. Instead she asks, “Why did Lord Glover ask my mother about me?”

Theon looks at her for a moment, and Serena can tell he’s considering lying to her. But finally he says, “You’ll be Lady of Winterfell one day, the Stark in Winterfell.”

None of this is new information to her, so Serena only shrugs.

“Lord Glover asked about you because he wants his son to marry you, so _his_ son will be the Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North.” 

“But why – “

“The rest of the world is not like Winterfell, Serena,” Theon says, rubbing her shoulder the way he does when she’s struggling with her archery and feeling defeated. “Ladies do not hold the power like your mother does. It is always the men.”

“Then what do the women do?”

“Your grandmother, she ran the household and raised her children. Your grandfather did the Lord’s jobs.”

“But Lord Glover’s son isn’t a Stark; _I_ am. Why should he get my seat just because he’s a man?”

Theon smiles. “Don’t worry, sweetling. Your mother will never let that happen.”

* * *

Though she is two years younger than Serena, Lara is already taller than her, all long, gangly limbs and broader through the shoulders than even little Sam, who is a man-grown now. When they were smaller, Serena used to wonder if Lara would grow to be as large as Brienne, but her mother said Lara was finished growing and now would just “fill out.” Serena isn’t entirely certain what that means, but while Lara waits for it to happen, she is the least coordinated she’s ever been and constantly covered in bruises, scrapes, and scabs from her numerous tumbles. It is one of those tumbles that landed her in Maester Sam’s rooms, which is where Serena finds her after the petitions.

“Seven fucking hells!” Lara exclaims when Maester Sam puts some sort of tonic on the wicked looking gash along Lara’s shin, blood and dirt carefully wiped away by the maester.

“Your mum will cuff you if she hears you cursing like that,” Serena says as she enters the room, unable to keep from smiling when Lara glares at her.

“ _Your_ mum will cuff me. Mine will just tell me to knock it off.” Lara hisses as Sam applies pressure to the wound. “Gods damn, that hurts!”

“I should probably stitch this,” the poor master informs her. “Will you let me do that?”

“Will you let me have some whiskey before you do it?”

Sam barely manages to swallow back a smile. “No, Lara, I will not give you whiskey.”

“Then no, you can’t stitch it. And if you go get my father and make him hold me down again, I swear I’ll – “

“Leave Maester Sam alone,” Serena interrupts, sitting beside her cousin and taking her hand. “He’s just trying to help. He’ll bandage you up and you’ll let him clean it until it heals so you don’t need stitches, all right?” When Lara reluctantly nods, she squeezes her cousin’s hand. “How’d you do it this time?”

“Papa asked me to keep Ned busy while Mum went to Wintertown, and I was chasing him when I fell off a wagon. I had to tell him the Night King was going to get him if he told Papa I got hurt again.”

“The Night King is dead.”

Lara shrugs. “He’s only five. He hasn’t learned his histories yet.” She hisses sharply through her clenched teeth and Serena sees Maester Sam scowling at Lara for her lie. “You did that on purpose.”

“The Night King isn’t some story, you know. He killed thousands of people, including your Uncle Bran. It isn’t something to use to scare your little brother.”

“She won’t do it again.” Serena holds Lara’s gaze for a long beat. “Right?”

“Right,” Lara agrees, digging her nails into Serena’s hand as Sam finishes tending to her leg.

After, when Lara’s right lower leg is bandaged from ankle to knee and Serena is helping her down the stairs of the castle, Lara hisses, “How are we going to get Ned to keep from telling on us if we can’t threaten him with the Night King?”

“Ned’s afraid of everything. We’ll just make up something else.” Almost stumbling as they reach one landing before beginning to descend the next set of stairs, she finally tells Lara what she’d wanted to tell her since seeking her out. “Lord Glover wants me to marry his son.”

“His son is an idiot. No one will ever marry him.” Lara tightens her arm around Serena’s shoulders with a grunt. “Besides, Stark women don’t get married. Why waste his breath asking?”

* * *

Lara wasn’t wrong. After her mothers’ unknown marriages, neither she nor Aunt Arya ever married. Once, Serena asked Aunt Arya why she and Uncle Gendry hadn’t had a proper marriage, and she’d told her if you truly loved a person, you didn’t need to say special words in front of a weirwood or a septon. It made sense then and it makes sense to Serena now. And yet it still niggles at her brain, this question of marriage.

Both of their mothers are still Starks. Serena is a Stark. Lara, Ned, and baby Syrio are Starks, despite Uncle Gendry’s surname being Waters. There are only Starks at Winterfell, and Serena suspects Lord Glover’s idiot son would not let that continue. Serena hates even the idea of being called anything other than Serena Stark.

It wasn’t always this way though. Serena knows her histories, and she knows her Grandmother Catelyn was of House Tully and her Grandmother Lyarra was of House Flint. They’d cast off their names and their houses when they’d married their Stark husbands. It seemed as if all women cast off who they were born as to become new women absorbed and shaped by their husbands’ houses, and Serena wonders if that is what would happen if she _did_ wed Lord Glover’s son or Lord Cerwyn’s son or any other man in all of Westeros. 

Even if she stayed in Winterfell, if her future husband came to _her_ castle and assumed _her_ titles and responsibilities, would she truly stay a Stark or would she do what the Lannisters, the Boltons, the Night King himself could not do and end House Stark?

“You shouldn’t have to worry about any of this,” Mother tells her when Serena poses the questions to her when she comes to say goodnight. Lara teases her about it, the way her mother still comes to her chamber, brushes her hair, and tucks her into her bed while discussing the happenings of the day, but Serena’s relationship with her mother is different from Lara’s and Aunt Arya’s. Lara and Aunt Arya have terrible shouting fights with each other, fights Serena imagines avowed enemies would have, but they also love each other just as fiercely. Serena and her mother seldom argue, and next to Lara, Serena thinks her mother may be her dearest friend.

“If you ever wish to marry, it will be your choice. Houses will send proposals, especially now that you’re the age most houses begin arranging marriages, but I will tell them all what I told Lord Glover: you are not ready.”

“ _Must_ I marry?”

“No, of course not. If you wish to never marry, that is your prerogative. All I care is if you are happy.” Sansa pushes a lock of dark hair out of Serena’s eyes. “I have done everything I can to make sure House Stark will never need to marry one of its daughters off ever again. It’s a luxury most women will never have, the chance to marry for love.”

“If I _do_ get married, will he become Lord of Winterfell? Will I have to step away?”

“No but you will need to marry a very special man, one who respects all you are.”

“Like King Jon does with Queen Daenerys?”

Sanas’s smile becomes brittle in a way Serena recognizes from the great hall. “Yes, I suppose so.”

“Why doesn’t he ever visit if he’s part of House Stark too? Is he angry with us?”

“How could he possibly be angry with you, sweetling? He’s never even met you. Jon doesn’t visit because it’s hard work to run seven kingdoms, and he has his own family now to care for as well. I’m sure Sam has taught you about them.”

Serena nods. She doubts there’s anyone in all of Westeros who doesn’t know of King Jon, Queen Daenerys, and Prince Aemon. “Why don’t we ever visit him then? We’re not so busy.”

Sansa laughs. “Oh, aren’t we? Are you calling me lazy, Serena Stark?”

“Yes, of course, the laziest Lady of Winterfell in history,” she giggles, leaning into her mother’s touch. “But we never go anywhere. You always send Aunt Arya when you need to see a holdfast.”

“I spent enough time away from Winterfell when I was your age.” Sansa kisses her forehead. “I’d much rather prefer to stay inside its walls with you.”

“Why do you never talk about the places you’ve been, the things you saw?”

“Because they aren’t happy memories.”

“And my father? Is he an unhappy memory as well?”

“No, darling. He gave me you. He’s my happiest memory.”

“Then why won’t you tell me anything about him? Why can’t I even know his name?”

“The only name that matters is ‘Stark.’ And I’ve told you before that he died during the Battle of Winterfell.”

“Was _he_ a special man? If he’d survived, would you have married him?”

The sadness on her mother’s face makes Serena’s heart ache. “If he’d asked me, yes. Now go to sleep, sweetling. You have extra time to make up with Sam tomorrow for skipping lessons today.”

It takes Serena far longer than usual to fall asleep, imaginings of her fallen father dancing behind her lids.

* * *

Not a week after Lord Glover asks after her hand, Serena hears herself called a bastard for the first time.

Her mother may keep her sheltered, but Serena understands what a bastard is. Aunt Arya was the one who explained it to her when Uncle Gendry referred to himself as such once when explaining why he was not the Lord of Storm’s End. Serena even knew the bastard surnames and how King Jon himself had once been Jon Snow when it was thought he was Grandfather Ned’s son to someone other than Grandmother Catelyn. It wasn’t that she did not know it was a word ascribed to children conceived from relationships outside of marriage. It was just that she had never considered herself to be one.

She is brushing down her horse after a hard ride, falling into the relaxing rhythm, when she hears two of the stable hands discussing Lord Glover’s proposal. Serena isn’t much for eavesdropping, never having the patience for lying in wait the way Lara does, but hearing herself discussed draws her attention.

“You think she’ll accept the lord’s proposal and marry the little lady off?” one of them asks the other. 

“I heard he isn’t the only one trying to secure her. I heard some Southron houses sent ravens about it too.”

“Southron?” The first man snorts with disgust. “Lady Stark won’t let no Southron man take her daughter _and_ her castle.”

“I didn’t say she would! I’m saying we’ll be seeing lots of little lords come prancing through the gates trying to win the little lady.” The second man laughs but it isn’t a kind sound. “Guess you get all kinds of offers when you’re a highborn bastard instead of a poor one.”

As the word cuts through Serena, she hears the sound of a fist connecting with flesh. “The Lady hears you call any of the little ones that, she’ll string you from the walls.”

“What? It’s the truth, innit? They can call all them kids ‘Stark,’ but they’d be Snows if they was born on the other side of the castle walls.”

Suddenly finding the stables suffocating, Serena drops the brush and hurries from the stall, startling the two servants. She doesn’t bother looking at who they are because she does not intend to repeat this conversation to her mother. Instead she makes her way through the yard, the sunshine seeming to mock her, and does not stop until she’s reached the godswood. She isn’t certain how long she’s been kneeling in front of the weirwood when Lara finds her, her black hair slick with sweat and sticking to her forehead.

“Where’ve you been? I’ve been looking everywhere for you. If you found a secret spot, you have to tell me,” she rushes on, not waiting for Serena’s answer, “because I always tell you when I find something good.”

“You’re a bastard.”

Lara scoffs, the toe of her boot connecting with Serena’s hip and knocking her sideways. “You’re an ass. Why are you calling me names?”

“I’m not.” Flopping onto her backside in the grass, Serena clarifies, “Your mother and father aren’t married, so you’re a bastard. So is Ned and Syrio. So am I.”

Her cousin shrugs. “So? Who cares?”

“It doesn’t bother you?”

“Why would it bother me? It’s just a stupid word. Mum loves me. Papa loves me. Aunt Sansa loves you.”

“But then we aren’t really Starks, are we? We’re Snows.”

“Why aren’t we Starks? My mum is a Stark. Your mum is a Stark. And even if I wasn’t Lara Stark, I’d be Lara Waters because that’s my father’s name. Snow is just made-up. It’s not like some bloke named Rickard Snow came along and fathered every bastard born in the North.” When Serena cracks a smile, Lara sits across from her, meeting her gaze in the same unsettling way Aunt Arya has. “Did someone call you a bastard? Because I’ll kill them. I swear I will, Serena. And if they called my brothers bastards, I’ll kill them all over again.”

“No, not to my face. I just…overheard something I wasn’t meant to hear.”

“Well, people are stupid.” Lara grasps Serena’s hands tight in her own. “You’re Serena Stark, and you’ll be the Lady of Winterfell one day. I’m Lara Stark, and I’ll be your castellan someday. We’re direwolves, just like our mothers, and that’s all that matters.”

Serena wants desperately to believe that. 

She isn’t certain she does.

* * *

All the men and women who died in the Battle of Winterfell were burned in a great pyre to keep them from rising again as the dead, but her mother erected a monument in their honor. The ones who were known – like Uncle Bran, Jaime Lannister, Tyrion Lannister, Podrick Payne, Beric Dondarrion – had their names engraved in the stone. Those who couldn’t be identified were simply referred to as “and the other brave souls who gave their lives in defense of the living.” 

“Do you know which name was my father’s?” she’d asked Brienne once when she’d seen Brienne laying flowers at the foot of the monument for Ser Jaime and Podrick.

“Your mother never shared that with me, my lady,” Brienne answered, and Serena almost called her a liar because her mother shares everything with Brienne.

“Do you know which one was my father?” she asked Theon one afternoon when they were returning from hunting pheasant.

“I only returned to Winterfell shortly before the battle. I never knew him, and I never asked.”

Serena thinks it is another lie. Outside of Aunt Arya, Theon is the person with whom she’s seen her mother relax the most with, the person who can make her smile and bring her comfort. Hells, she’s once heard her mother tell Theon she trusted him without question, so why would she not share who Serena’s father was with him?

“Which name belonged to my father?” she outright asks Aunt Arya a few days after hearing the stable hands discussing her status as a bastard.

“I don’t know.”

Aunt Arya is not Brienne or Theon, is not someone Serena loves but is also aware is in service to Winterfell and her mother. Arya is family, and that is why she does not hesitate to snap, “Liar!”

Arya arches an eyebrow, setting down her pen to lock Serena in place with her gaze. “Watch your tone.”

“I will not! You’re lying. Everyone lies to me. Why will no one tell me who he was?” 

“Because we do not know.”

“And I say you do! You and Mother tell each other everything! I am three-and-ten! In nearly fourteen years, she’s never once mentioned my father? You’ve never once asked? You said it was Tyrion Lannister or Ramsay Bolton. She says he was a good man whom she would have married. So why is it such a secret? Was he already married? Did he not really die and abandon her instead? Was he the bloody Night King?!”

“Watch your tone,” Arya repeats, getting to her feet to shut her solar door, “and lower your voice. The whole castle will hear you shouting, and this will upset your mother.”

“But why? Why does my father upset my mother so much? Why can’t I know?”

Motioning Serena to sit at the table, Arya waits until she is seated to take her own seat. “Sansa was already pregnant when I returned home. She let out her gowns and did not tell a soul about you until after the Battle of Winterfell. Whenever I asked her who your father was, she’d only say he died. I never pushed and I never asked because what Ramsay Bolton did to your mother…”. Arya shakes her head. “I used to worry I’d never see Sansa happy again, and then you were born. Your father didn’t matter, Serena, because _you_ are the one who brought your mother her greatest happiness.”

They are pretty words, and Serena appreciates them.

But it doesn’t change the fact she still feels as if half of her is missing.

* * *

There are many children in Winterfell. Besides Serena and her cousins, there is Little Sam, though he is near six-and-ten now, his four younger siblings, and the servants’ children. Though they are probably too old for it now, when the shock of a late spring snow makes the temperature drop suddenly and blankets Winterfell in several inches of snow, Serena and Lara find themselves defending themselves in a snowball attack being launched by Little Sam and the younger children.

“Traitors!” Lara shouts as she throws a snow ball at Ned, who is collecting snow in his shirt to carry back to the other kids, and little Syrio, who is less interested in the fight and more interested in rolling around in the snow. “I’m your sister!”

“No mercy!” Dickon, Sam and Gilly’s son who is the same age as Lara, shouts back in return, and Serena almost feels bad for him when one of Lara’s densely packed snowballs hits him square in the face.

It is during the Tarly advance it happens. Serena and Lara are making their retreat across the yard, and Lara trips. As she starts to fall, she instinctively reaches for Serena, catching the back of her cloak and ripping it right off of her cousin. The backward motion followed by the release of the cloak sends Serena pinwheeling forward, arms waving wildly, and she collides hard with one of the multiple braziers in the yard the servants are using to keep warm while working. 

Serena hears the screams, including Lara’s horrified shout of her name. Someone shouts to get the maester, another shouts to fetch Lady Sansa, and Serena feels the heat on her skin, a licking of flame through her dress. Still so startled, Serena isn’t even fully aware she has caught fire until people are beating out the flames with their cloaks, and suddenly Uncle Gendry is there, cradling her in his arms as if she is no bigger than Syrio, rushing her inside for Sam to heal her.

“What happened?” she hears her mother demanding, and Serena realizes her head hurts and she must’ve struck it at some point. 

Uncle Gendry is setting her on her stomach on a cot, her clothes being pulled from her body by himself, Sam, Gilly, and her mother, and Serena wants to tell them she’s fine, her back doesn’t hurt near as bad as her head does, that this wasn’t Lara’s fault because Lara will blame herself for this, but she can’t seem to make herself say any of that.

“I don’t understand,” is the last thing she hears from Gilly before drifting into unconsciousness.

When she wakes hours later, her mother’s tear stained face the first thing she sees, Serena barely manages to ask, “What – “ before her mother is assuring her she is fine, just a bump on the head. 

“You were lucky. You wore so many layers to protect against the cold, the flames never reached your skin.”

Serena knows that isn’t true, remembers the burn of the coals and flames, but her back in unblemished and her head still hurts, so she simply accepts the explanation for now.

* * *

“Maybe you’re magic,” Lara says as they share the large copper bathing tub as they once had as children, the younger girl tracing the smooth skin of Serena’s back. She’d been tasked by her older cousin to make certain there wasn’t some mark she’d missed during her own examinations with the looking glass, but, just as before, Lara found nothing wrong. “Everyone says Uncle Bran was magic.”

“He was the Three-Eyed Raven. He had visions and went inside people. He could still be hurt.”

“How do you know?”

“Well for starters, he was in a bloody wheelchair, so he obviously couldn’t heal everything, and for another, he’s dead. Ouch!” Serena exclaims as Lara pinches her as hard as she can.

“Looks like you’re not impervious either,” Lara declared with a smirk. 

“I was on fire, Lara. I know I was. You saw it!”

“Papa says your clothes were wet from the snow, and you had on a dress and a shift and smallclothes. Isn’t it more likely you just didn’t catch fire from pure luck than you have some kind of fire magic?”

“I don’t think I’m magic! I just think…something is strange.”

“Maester Sam has all sorts of strange books he stole from the Citadel. Want me to borrow them? Maybe they have something in them about fire magic.”

“He won’t let you borrow them.”

“Of course, he won’t. I’ll have to steal them. But I’ll return them,” Lara rushes to add, “once we know if you’re magic or not.” 

“Maybe my father couldn’t be hurt by fire either. Maybe that’s why I didn’t get hurt.”

Serena loves her cousin even more for clearly not believe it and still saying, “Maybe.”

* * *

Little Sam knows more about anything than anyone else at Winterfell, save his father, and he is the one who tells Serena about the Lord of Light, Red Priests and Priestesses, and their use of fire.

“Were there ever people like that at Winterfell?”

He thinks for a moment, face folding with concentration. Serena wouldn’t say he’s handsome exactly, but she understands why the serving girls all titter when he smiles at them. “There was a Red Woman once; I’ve heard my father speak about her. I don’t remember her name or what happened to her. There was a Red Priest who died beyond the wall when he fought alongside King Jon, and he raised Beric Dondarrion from the dead multiple times before he died for real during the Battle of Winterfell.”

“Beric Dondarrion?”

“Yeah, he was a knight or something. I don’t really know much more. I wasn’t much bigger than Syrio during the battle, and no one ever talks about it.”

“I’ve noticed.”

He studies her face for a moment before venturing, “Why do I feel like you’re asking me a question without asking me the question you really want to ask me?”

“Because you’re smarter than a maester.” 

Little Sam blushes, and it surprises Serena how much she likes that she can make him blush. “Will you miss me then, if I decide to go to the Citadel?”

“Would _you_ miss _me_?”

Somehow his blush deepens even more. “You know I would.”

Serena isn’t certain which bit of information stays with her more: that Beric Dondarrion may have been her father or that Little Sam Tarly may love her.

* * *

On the day the Hand of the Queen comes to Winterfell, Serena is sparring with Lara in the yard under Brienne’s watchful eye. As usual Lara is besting her, though Serena has managed to only be disarmed twice, and she has just managed to parry a particularly quick thrust when a handful of men ride through the gates, the Targaryen standard flying above them.

“I thought the queen would be prettier,” Lara quips when a bearded old man slides down from his horse, and Brienne raps Lara’s knuckles with the flat of a practice sword for being disrespectful.

Serena spots the pin on the man’s chest and remembers it from Maester Sam’s lessons. “That’s the Queen’s Hand.”

“Ser Davos!” Gendry greets as he steps out of the forge, a grin stretching across his face. Serena watches as the two men embrace. “What brings you above the Neck?”

“Official business, as it were.” He glances around the yard, and, when he sees Brienne, he inclines his head in deference. “Good to see you again, Lady Brienne.”

Serena and Lara exchange a glance; they’ve never heard anyone refer to Brienne as a “lady” so long as they’ve been alive. 

“And you as well, ser.”

Davos smiles at Serena and Lara before glancing at Gendry. “Well I’d know this one is yours without a doubt. This is your eldest?”

Gendry beams with pride as he crosses the yard to set his hands atop Lara’s shoulders. “Aye, this is Lara. She’ll be two-and-twelve in three moons.”

“Gods be good, already? I remember when Arya sent word she was on the way.” He looks at Serena, a kind smile on his face. “And that must make you Lady Serena.”

“Yes, ser.”

“The last time I saw you, you were the size of a loaf of bread.” He bows in deference. “You’re as lovely as your mother.”

“She doesn’t look anything like her mother,” Lara says, hissing as Gendry twists her ear. “Seven hells! I was just telling the truth!”

Ser Davos laughs, genuine amusement on his face. “May I see the Lady of Winterfell then?”

Gendry nods, pushing his daughter back towards Brienne. “I swear to the Old Gods and New, girl, if you don’t start minding your tongue, I’m going to thump you.”

“I’ll thump you back,” Lara retorts, sticking out her tongue, and Serena sees the way Uncle Gendry struggles to maintain a stern face as he leads Ser Davos into the castle.

“You’re lucky your father is so tolerant of your antics,” Brienne says as she leads them back to the practice yard.

“My father loves my antics. He just pretends he doesn’t.”

“Brienne, why would the Queen’s Hand come to Winterfell?”

The older woman sighs, face becoming downright serious. “I’m not certain, Lady Serena, but I wouldn’t worry over it. After all, the king is your kin, so it cannot be ill tidings.”

“Mother says the queen leads King Jon around by his – “

“ _Enough_ , Lara!” Brienne thrusts the practice swords into Lara’s hands. “Put those away. We’re done for the day.”

As Lara carries the practice swords towards their rightful place, she steps behind Brienne. The moment she is out of their teacher’s line of vision, Lara uses one of the wooden swords to mimic the body part Arya believes the king to be led by, and, as she struggles not to giggle, Serena knows it isn’t just Uncle Gendry who appreciates Lara’s antics.

* * *

“The Queen and her court are coming to Winterfell,” her mother tells her at bedtime that night, her beautiful face giving nothing away. “Ser Davos rode ahead to give us time to prepare, but they’ll be here in a fortnight.”

“Why?”

“Because they haven’t been here since the war, and Queen Daenerys wishes to speak with the Northern lords.”

“And King Jon? Does he miss the North?”

“I’m sure he does. He was a true Northman when I knew him.”

“Then why did he go south?”

“Because he loved the queen, and her place was in King’s Landing.” 

“You don’t like the queen.”

Sansa’s smile is a combination of amused and tired. “The queen and I were often at odds during the war, but it was only because we wanted the same things through different means. I do not believe she is a cruel queen, and I have known cruel queens.”

“But you don’t want them to come. I can tell.”

She sighs, stretching out beside Serena in her bed and snuggling into one of the pillows. “Things always change when the royal court comes to Winterfell, no matter who sits the throne. I suppose I worry what those changes will be.”

Something like panic begins to flutter in Serena’s stomach. “I don’t want things to change.”

Cupping Serena’s cheek, Sansa vows, “Oh, my girl, I will wage the greatest battle Winterfell’s ever seen before I let anything touch you. You need never worry about that.”

Once, when Serena asked Theon why her mother insisted on archery and sword lessons along with all her other lessons, he’d told her it was so she’d be as fierce on her own as Sansa and Arya were together. 

Serena understood Arya’s fierceness then, had seen her and Brienne sparring in the yard so many times, it was like witnessing a beautiful dance. But she’d been too young then to understand all the ways a woman could be fierce and instead said, “My mother isn’t fierce.”

Theon smirked then and argued, “Your mother is fiercer than most men. There’s a reason they sing songs about the she-wolves of Winterfell.”

As she lays beside her mother, Serena finally understands why her mother is called a she-wolf.

* * *

“Did you know my father, Ser Davos?” 

He looks up from the figurine he is carving only for a moment before turning his attention back to the work at hand. “Aye, I did.”

Serena is so shocked by the answer, for a moment she doesn’t have a response. It is only when she has recovered her faculties that she manages to ask, “What was he like?”

“A good man, honorable, fair. Not always the smartest fella but he’d do anything to protect those he loved. He was good with a sword but didn’t much like all the fighting. I always thought it was a shame he ended up a soldier because he would’ve been happy being a simple man with a simple life.”

“You were in the Battle of Winterfell?”

“Yes.”

“Were you with him when he died?”

He pauses again, this time keeping his eyes on the piece of wood in his hands. “I was. I gave him my solemn word I’d make sure your mother and aunt were safe, that House Stark would survive. I stayed at Winterfell until your mother recovered from your birth, and the castle was repaired enough to be secure.”

“Was it – Was my father Beric Dondarrion?”

“What?” He snorts. “No, princess, Dondarrion was not your father. Your father was – He was the bastard son of a high lord, no one of means or consequence. He wanted a better world, and he fought for it. But he loved your mother and loved you as well.”

“He knew about me then? Aunt Arya said no one knew my mother was pregnant until after the battle.”

“I had seven sons once. I always knew before my wife told anyone. But even if he didn’t know about you before the battle, I’m certain he knows of you now and is proud of the woman you are.” 

Ser Davos holds up the object he was carving, and Serena sees it is a running direwolf. “For you, princess.”

“Thank you.” Holding the direwolf to her chest, she adds, “But I’m not a princess, Ser Davos. My mother is not the Queen in the North.”

“No, but you remind me of a princess I knew once. I think you two would’ve been great friends.” The sadness in his smile near breaks Serena’s heart. “She could have used a friend as kind as you.”

“I would have liked to know her.” Looking at the direwolf, she asks, “Did she die during the war?”

“No, her father believed the lies of a witch who convinced him that only the blood of a king could give him the strength he needed to win the Iron Throne. He burnt his daughter at the stake for it.”

Serena gasps, horrified. It is only the genuine pain on the older man’s face that makes her grab his hand and assure him, “That will never happen to me.”

“Of course, it wouldn’t. Your mother would never – “

“No, I mean – “ 

Serena sets the direwolf down and shows him something she has not even shown Lara yet. She takes her hand and, holding his gaze, plunges it into the flame of a burning candle. He shouts at once, grabbing her wrist to pull it away, and she sees when he realizes her skin is unbroken.

“I cannot be burned by fire. I don’t know why. Lara thinks I might be magic, but Little Sam told me about the Red Priests. I thought maybe – “

Ser Davos’s grip on her wrist tightens to the point of near pain. “Does anyone else know about this?”

She shakes her head.

“You mustn’t tell anyone about this, Serena. I mean it. If anyone knew of this, it would be dangerous to you.”

“I won’t tell anyone.”

He releases her wrist. “I didn’t mean to scare you. It’s just…The world is not always as kind as it is here.”

Massaging her wrist, Serena sighs, “So everyone keeps telling me.”

* * *

The sight of dragons overhead makes Ned start to cry. Under normal circumstances Serena would tell him to stop and try to be braver, but there is something about their appearance that makes Serena scoop him up and balance him on her hip.

“They aren’t going to hurt us,” Serena assures him in a voice she models after her mother’s. “The queen is our friend, and the dragons will not harm her friends.”

“I don’t like this,” Lara murmurs, her Baratheon blue eyes focused on the circling beasts casting shadows around them. “It doesn’t feel right.”

“Both of you, hush,” Arya orders, taking Ned from Serena’s arms and rubbing his back. “The queen isn’t like us. She won’t want your lip. When they arrive, you smile and remember your courtesies.”

“I never thought I’d live to see the day _you_ would be lecturing on courtesies,” Sansa drawls with a smirk, and Gendry tries to turn a laugh into a cough when Arya narrows her eyes at him.

“Clearly you’ve been a terrible influence on me.” Pressing a kiss to Ned’s brow before setting him back on his feet, she adds, “Besides, I’m out of practice at fighting entire armies.”

“When did you fight an entire army?” Lara asks before the thundering of hooves ends the questions.

Serena has never seen anything like this. The queen’s soldiers are a motley crew, a mixture of Dothraki and Unsullied left from her conquest, a few Westerosi mixed in among them. Though they do not wear crowns, it is easy to select the king, queen, and prince among the group. The queen, silver-haired and beautiful, rides alongside the prince and heir to the Iron Throne, whose looks distinctly disappointed in Winterfell in a way that makes Serena’s temper flare. Jon, the kingly cousin she’s only heard tales of, rides ahead of them, a grin spreading across his long Stark face as he slides down from his horse, rushing towards them as if he is not some stranger come to call.

Arya accepts his enthusiastic embrace, even laughing as he lifts her off of her feet as if she is a little girl. When they are side by side, Serena sees just how much they look alike, and she understands now how he could have been mistaken for their brother all those years.

“Gods, look at you! It has been far too long.”

“And whose fault is that?”

“I’ve invited you to visit dozens of times.”

“Yes, well, I was busy.” She hooks her thumb in Gendry’s direction. “This one keeps getting me pregnant.”

“Yes, I do that all by myself,” Gendry dryly chimes in, inclining his head in deference for a beat. “It is good to see you again, your grace.”

King Jon clasps his hand before pulling him into a back-slapping embrace as well. It is only as he pulls back and looks upon Sansa that he sobers some. “Lady Stark.”

“Your grace,” she says in response, voice even, and it is only when her face cracks into a soft smile that King Jon moves forward for an embrace from her as well.

Serena watches as the queen and prince approach behind him, and there is a hint of strain in the queen’s smile as she greets them. Any warmness in her mother’s demeanor disappears behind her Lady’s face as she says, “Winterfell is yours again, your grace.”

Queen Daenerys’s smile is as brittle as thin ice. “Thank you, Lady Stark. You must introduce us to your household. So much has changed these past fourteen years.”

“Of course. This is my daughter Serena and my niece Lara, as well as my nephews Eddard and Syrio.”

They’ve never curtsied before. In fact, until Sansa pulled the two of them aside early in the week and showed them the proper way to do so, they’d never even considered it. When you were a daughter of Winterfell, you did not curtsy to anyone. Even now, as she holds her dress and tries to sink gracefully into the movement her mother demonstrated, Serena resents having to behave this way in her own home.

Thankfully Lara somehow gets tangled in her own legs and cries out as she flops down to the ground, sending Ned and Syrio into peels of giggles and distracting Serena enough from her anger. 

“Seven hells,” Lara grunts as Serena helps her back to her feet, and Prince Aemon hides his smile behind his hand as Queen Daenerys makes certain Lara is all right.

As Sansa hurries to show the queen and her family to their rooms, Serena looks to Lara, who is frowning at her now ruined dress. 

“I really like this dress.”

“Maybe it can be cleaned.”

“Well, she can feed me to the bloody dragons, but I’m not doing that again.” Lara brushes her hands against her skirts. “I’m not ruining all my good dresses for manners.”

If Lara isn’t going to curtsy, Serena decides, neither will she.

* * *

“Would you show me my grandmother’s statue?”

Serena looks up from the translation she’s supposed to be doing for Maester Sam to see Prince Aemon standing before her. Despite the fineness of his clothes, he looks more like a Northerner than he does a Targaryen prince with his dark hair, long face, and angular build. Only his purple eyes give away who he truly is, and Serena thinks again it is a wonder Grandfather Ned was able to keep King Jon’s parentage a secret as long as he did. He never would’ve been able to do so if he’d shown any Targaryen traits like this prince.

“Excuse me?”

“My father said there are crypts beneath Winterfell and my Grandmother Lyanna has a statue there. I would like to see it.”

Serena doesn’t like the crypts, never has, but she rises from the table because her mother had been very clear: you do not say no to a member of the royal family. She leads him through Winterfell’s halls until they reach the entrance to the crypts. For a moment she hesitates, wants to warn him about the steepness and unevenness of the stairs, the chill of the air down there, the unnerving way the stone countenances of their ancestors will watch them, but she says nothing. Instead she leads him down into the earth, taking a torch off of the wall to light their way.

“The Targaryens don’t have crypts,” Aemon offers in the echoing silence. “They burn their dead.”

Before she can catch herself, Serena asks, “How would you know? You’re the only Targaryens.”

“My mother told me.” He shrugs. “I guess someone told her.”

Feeling badly for her rudeness and the hint of sadness in his words, she offers, “My mother doesn’t really talk about the other Starks. I mean, I know who they were, and sometimes she tells stories about her brothers. I think it makes her sad to think about them.”

“Robb, Bran, Rickon.” When she arches her eyebrows in surprise, Aemon smiles. “They were my father’s brothers too. At least, he thought they were. I always thought it would be fun, growing up with brothers and sisters.”

Serena loves Lara like a sister, looks at Ned and Syrio as her brothers, but she is also acutely aware that they are her cousins. If one day Aunt Arya and Uncle Gendry decided to leave Winterfell, Serena would not go with them, and the ones she loved would be gone. A cousin is not a sibling, and it can be so lonely. “Me too.”

“It’s odd, isn’t it? Your family is the only family I have, and this is the first time we’re meeting. I had to beg to come here. Father talks about it all the time.”

“Then why did you look at it like we were beneath you?”

“Because when you hear stories about a place so much, you expect it to match the stories. I guess I didn’t expect it to just be another castle.” He stops in front of the tomb dedicated to Robb, Grey Wind beside him. “He never lost a battle, you know.”

She thinks of a sketch she once saw in one of Maester Sam’s books, a horrifying line drawing of a direwolf head attached to a man’s body. It gave her nightmares for weeks. “For all the good it did him.” She points. “That’s Aunt Lyanna.”

Aemon moves across the dirt floor, standing in front of Lyanna Stark’s statue. He is quiet for a long time, and Serena finds herself truly studying the statue of her long-dead aunt for the first time. When she visits the crypts with her mother, it is usually to lay flowers for her grandfather or one of her uncles. She’s seen Lyanna’s tomb before as well as Uncle Brandon’s and Great-Grandfather Rickard’s, but they are even further removed from Serena’s own life than her mother’s lost loved ones. Serena loves her house and respects its history, but Lyanna Stark is just a story to her the same way Uncle Bran or the Night King is.

“What are you doing?”

Serena and Aemon both turn to see King Jon, an odd look on his face. While Aemon looks prepared to apologize, Serena simply gestures to the statue. “Aemon wanted to see his grandmother’s monument.”

“That was kind of you, Serena, but Aemon should have asked me. The crypts can be dangerous for those who aren’t familiar with them.”

“Aunt Arya says they’re only dangerous if you aren’t a Stark.”

“Well, I’m a Stark!” Aemon declares, a hint of indignation in his voice. 

“Aye, you are,” King Jon agrees, “but I still think it’s best if you only come down here with someone who knows their way. Your mother will kill us both if you get lost down here.”

Aemon shivers, looking at Serena. “You can get lost?”

“Oh, yes, there are many tunnels. It’s where all the smallfolk and children hid during the Battle of Winterfell. Isn’t that right, your grace?”

King Jon’s smile is near a grimace. “Yes, it was. Your mother gathered them here. I suppose you were here as well then.”

“Well…there must always be a Stark in Winterfell.”

The grimace deepens. “Yes, my fath – my _uncle_ always said that.”

“Which one is he?” 

As King Jon moves to show him, Serena steps back, leaving them to the stone statues of strangers who once shared their blood.

* * *

She hears the title by accident during the second week of the royal court’s visit. Serena is practicing her archery with Theon, who has kept to himself during the court’s visit and only came into the yard after endless pleading from Serena, when someone refers to Queen Daenerys as “the Unburnt.”

“What does that mean, ‘the Unbearnt?’” she asks Theon, notching another arrow, taking aim, and letting it fly towards the target, the point burying itself just left of center. 

“It’s how she hatched her dragons. You’re still pulling to the left. How many times have we discussed this?”

“How did she hatch her dragons?”

Handing her another arrow, Theon shrugs. “She was married to some Dothraki king who died. She put the eggs in his funeral pyre and lit it with herself inside. When the fire burned out, she was unburnt and the eggs were now dragons.”

“Fire doesn’t burn her?”

“I suppose not. Dragons, they’re fire creatures, aren’t they? Must be a Targaryen thing.” He takes a gentle hold of her back elbow and moves it to where it should be for a perfect shot. “Now try again.”

“Targaryens don’t burn?”

Theon sighs. “I don’t know, Serena. The queen isn’t in a hurry to speak with me. It’s all stories. For all I know, it’s as real as the stories about Robb riding his wolf into battle. Now you dragged me out here for practice, so practice.”

Her shot goes so wide, the arrow buries itself into a hay bale behind the target.

* * *

She has snuck into Lara’s room as often as Lara has snuck into hers, but it feels different tonight. As Serena lets herself into her cousin’s room, she barely manages to keep from immediately running to the bed. Lara is fast asleep, splayed in all directions, and Serena carefully slips beneath the bedclothes, snuggling close to her as she finally lets her tears fall. She isn’t certain how long she’s been there when Lara blinks her sleepy eyes open and murmurs, “What’s wrong?”

For some reason the question makes her cry harder. Lara doesn’t say a word, wrapping her arms around Serena’s trembling body and squeezing her tight. There is something about the strangling ferocity of Lara’s hug that grounds Serena, reminds her who she is and where she is and why she came to her cousin rather than her mother.

“I think King Jon is my father,” she finally whispers, too afraid to say the words in a normal voice, too afraid of what they will mean.

It is too dark to truly read Lara’s face, but Serena can see the wheels turning in her brain. “You know what that means then?”

“I’m a Targaryen.”

“No.” Lara smiles, wiping away one of the hot tears still coursing down Serena’s cheeks. “You’re more of a Stark than any of us.”

In that moment Serena knows she will never love or trust anyone as much as she loves and trusts Lara.

* * *

She is only alone with King Jon once during the visit, and it is a complete accident. The day after she realizes why her mother has never told her about her father, Serena goes to the godswood to pray for peace. She finds King Jon already there, seated beside the pool, polishing the Valyrian steel blade he carries with the wolf’s head pommel. She freezes for a moment when he notices her, and then she slowly approaches him, taking a seat beside him.

It could have been a minute or an hour but eventually she asks, “Did you know about me when you married the queen?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.”

“But I didn’t know about you when I fell in love with her. I didn’t…What has your mother told you?”

“Nothing.” When he looks dubious, she feels a sudden need to defend her mother against his judgment. “I figured it out on my own. She always said my father died in the Battle of Winterfell.”

Jon sighs, setting his sword aside and scrubbing at his face. Finally, he says, “It was just once. The night before I left Winterfell to ask Daenerys to help us fight the Others, everything just…We thought we were siblings. We were ashamed, and we swore we’d never speak of it again. By the time I came back with Daenerys, we were in love and Sansa…I didn’t know she was pregnant until we’d won the war, until we were already planning our wedding.”

“Does the queen know?”

“Sansa made me swear I wouldn’t tell her, and it seemed the least I could do. She knew it would make her nervous, especially with the history of Blackfyre rebellions.”

“I’m not a Blackfyre.”

“No, you’re a Stark.” Jon finally smiles, a true, genuine smile that almost makes the ice around Serena’s heart melt. “She made you a Stark, and one day you’ll be the Lady of Winterfell. You’ll never have to be like me, wandering and desperate to find something that’s yours, a place you belong. Sansa always made sure you had that.”

“Didn’t you wonder about me? Didn’t you want me?”

Jon winces. “Sam told me about you when he’d write. I always knew you were safe and loved. And I never – I never had the chance to want you, Serena. The moment I knew you were a possibility, Sansa told me you would never be mine. You couldn’t be if she wanted peace, and Sansa deserved peace. You have always been Sansa’s daughter and only Sansa’s daughter, and I hope you understand I don’t resent her for that.”

“You don’t think I deserved to have a father?”

“I think a father is more than just blood, and if you truly think about it, you’ll admit you have had many fathers growing up here.” Jon reaches over, resting his hand atop hers. “Please don’t misunderstand. I love you. Seeing you, getting to know you, watching you with Aemon, it’s made me so happy. But if we were to walk back to the castle and I was to claim you, even if Daenerys didn’t strike me dead for keeping such a secret, what would we do next? Do you want to leave Winterfell? Do you want to be a princess of the Iron Throne?”

“No,” Serena answers without hesitation, knowing in her bones she doesn’t want to leave the North. 

“I will make you the same promise I made your mother: if you need me, I will come.”

“What would I need you for?”

He chuckles. “That’s what your mother said too.”

Serena looks at him then, searching and finding herself in his features. Now that she knows who he is to her, it is so obvious, their commonalities, but they are the same ones he shares with Aunt Arya. Just Stark features, all distributed in different ways across them. She’d thought knowing the truth, having a name would make her feel different or more complete, but as Serena looks at the King of the Seven Kingdoms, she realizes Jon is just a man. No better, no worse, just a regular man who happens to be her father.

It’s a terrible thing, she decides, to realize your parents are just people.

* * *

“Jon told me you two talked.” 

“He did?”

“Don’t look so surprised. We may have had our difference, but we _do_ talk. He said you seemed upset.”

“I _am_ upset. You all lied to me my entire life.” Serena sighs, crossing her arms over her chest. “But I understand why you did. I just…wish things were different.”

“So do I. But our life isn’t so bad, is it?”

“No, I like our life.” She pushes her hair away from her face, trying to articulate the complicated knot in her chest. “You said you loved him, that you would have married him. So why did you let him marry the queen?”

“Because he loved her. Because I loved _you_. I didn’t feel as if I lost anything when Jon married Daenerys because I already had everything I wanted. I’m sorry you grew up without a father. I loved my father, and I wish every day I’d had more time with him. But I tried to surround you with people who would love you as much as I do, to give you all the things you’ll need to have the kind of life you deserve.”

Wiping at a stray tear, she asks, “Then why do you hate the queen?”

Sansa laughs. “I don’t! Daenerys and I have our differences, yes, but I don’t hate her. She makes Jon happy. She helped rebuild the damage the Lannisters did. She’s raising her son to be a good man and a good king. I have no quarrel with her.”

“But you’re afraid she’ll hurt me if she knew the truth.”

“I think it’s a situation I never want to consider.”

Something about her tone tells Serena just how much her mother _has_ considered it.

* * *

“You should come visit us in King’s Landing,” Aemon says to Serena and Lara as court prepares to depart. “We could even go to Dragonstone.”

“It’s kind of you to offer, but I’m not sure my mother would let me travel so far.” Seeing the disappointment in her half-brother’s face, Serena rushes on, “But I’ll make certain to ask her often. Maybe you could come stay again. There’s so much of the North you haven’t seen yet.”

“You haven’t even met the wildlings yet,” Lara chimes in. “There’s a giant that lives up at Karhold.”

Aemon’s eyes grow wide with excitement before Queen Daenerys calls for him. He moves as if he wants to hug them but is uncertain if he should, and so Serena makes the decision for him, giving him a quick embrace and wishing him safe travels. As he swings up into his saddle, Serena leans into Lara and says, “There are no giants at Karhold.”

“So? He doesn’t know that. And it’ll give him something to look forward to seeing.”

“Except we won’t ever have a giant to show him.”

Lara shrugs. “What’s he going to do, execute us? We’re his kin. He can’t be a kinslayer.”

Serena loops an arm around her cousin’s shoulders. “You are incorrigible.”

“My mum says all the best people are.”

Serena is genuinely sad to see Ser Davos go, and her embrace of him lasts far longer than the one she shared with Aemon. He presses a kiss to the crown of her head and gruffly says, “You take care of yourself, princess. Try to stay out of trouble.”

“I’ll do my best.”

He takes hold of her chin, looking at her face, before smiling wide. “You Starks will drive me into an early grave.”

“Have you looked in the mirror lately?” Jon asks as he approaches them. “’Early’ may be the wrong word.”

Davos rolls his eyes good-naturedly before kissing Serena’s head again and heading towards his own horse. Jon stands before Serena for a moment, neither quite certain what to say, when Lara sidles up beside her, the two of them standing shoulder-to-shoulder as they face the king.

“You’ll take care of each other?”

Serena nods while Lara says, “We always do.”

Jon smiles. “Then I leave Winterfell in your capable hands.” 

He embraces Lara first, ruffling her hair and telling her to keep practicing with her sword. When he embraces Serena, she closes her eyes, trying to remember everything about this moment, about _him_ in case she never sees him again.

“I hope you’ll write,” he murmurs against her ear.

Serena doesn’t promise to do so because she is not sure she will. Instead she says, “Thank you for everything.”

Just as the household gathered to greet them, they gather to bid them farewell. Serena stands with her family as Jon, Daenerys, Aemon, and the lot of them start the long progress back to King’s Landing. When they are all finally through the gates, Serena turns towards her mother and says, “It doesn’t seem like much fun, being a queen.”

Sansa smiles. “No, I suppose it doesn’t.”

* * *

The first offer for Lara’s hand comes by raven just after her twelfth name day, some second son of a Manderly cousin. Serena only knows about it because Lara overheard her mother ranting to Sansa about it before feeding the slip of paper to the flames.

“I’m never getting married,” Lara declares as she and Serena collect wild berries one afternoon. “If they try to make me, I’ll run away to Essos and become a sellsword.”

“That seems reasonable.”

Lara swings her pail halfheartedly in Serena’s direction. “I won’t ever leave Winterfell.”

“Good. I’d miss you too much if you did.”

“And you won’t leave either?”

“Where would I go? No one would hire me to be a sellsword.”

“King’s Landing.” When Serena just looks at her, she adds, “Targaryens marry Targaryens. Maybe you’ll wake up one day and want to be queen, and you’ll go to King’s Landing to marry Aemon.”

“There’s a better chance of me becoming a sellsword.” Serena throws her arms open wide. “I couldn’t leave this. I am Serena Stark of Winterfell. I will be the Lady of Winterfell and Warden of the North. And as long as you want a place there, you’ll have one.”

“Do you swear it, to the Old Gods and the New?”

“I’ll swear it to every god of every faith. Winterfell is ours. Our mothers fought for it, our uncles died for it, and no one will ever take it from us. Least of all some Manderly cousin or Lord Glover’s stupid son.”

Lara smirks. “What about Little Sam? Are you going to let _him_ come into your castle?”

Serena hits Lara squarely in the back with her pail of berries, her cousin’s laughter making Serena laugh too.


End file.
